


In Plain Sight (So Open Your Eyes)

by scifisis



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:52:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifisis/pseuds/scifisis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Abbie considers that maybe she’s not as alone as she thought she was and one time when it was blatantly obvious. In which Irving is the wizard of Oz, Luke isn’t actually that bad a dude, and the Headless Horseman ruins everything. Spoilers up to 1x08.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Plain Sight (So Open Your Eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of non-physical child abuse. Can be read as gen or romance.

            5. Corbin

 

            Crane likes to fall asleep in the police station archives. Abbie supposes that isn’t fair, exactly: they both are keeping late hours and sometimes, the research requires that they stay in the archives until they’re ready to collapse.

            Abbie knows it’s happened _today_ because whenever it happens, Captain Irving gives her the _look_ when she comes into the police station the next morning, the one that always means that her life is about to go to straight to hell at a speed faster than normal.

            “He did it again,” Irving says instead of good morning. Abbie sidles past him towards the coffee pot.

            “Did what?”

            “You know good and damn well what I’m talking about Lieutenant,” Irving says, and there goes Abbie’s good day. She sets the pot down and turns to face him. “This is a police station, not a boarding house,” he adds— _scolds_ , really, like Crane is Abbie’s pet and she left him out in the rain. The notion is patently ridiculous, since Abbie can’t even keep her goldfish alive.

            “He doesn’t like the motel,” Abbie says. “Besides, he can’t stay there for the next seven years.”

            God, the next _seven_ _years_. What the hell has she gotten herself into?

            “Too bad. Either find him a more permanent dwelling or lock him in his room at night,” Irving says definitively, looking down his nose at her. “That is your task for the day, Lieutenant: find suitable digs for Crane or the next time he falls asleep here, I’m having him dropped off on your door step.”

            “Yes, sir,” Abbie says dutifully, even though she really wants to say things like _why is this my responsibility, he’s a grown ass man_ and _the universe is already conspiring against me, sir, please don’t assist it further_.

            Inside the archives, Abbie finds Crane folded forward on the heavy desk, propped up on a huge weatherworn book. He is sleeping soundly, little puffs of breath blowing his bangs forward every time he exhales.

            Abbie refuses to find it cute. She strolls up to the desk, picks up one of the many books littering the table—one that’s thicker than a dictionary—and lets it drop, oh, a good two feet.

            Crane _shoots_ up and awake. “What in damnation—?”

            Abbie smirks. She’s always stupidly pleased when she can make him swear. “Good morning.”

            Crane’s bleary eyes find hers and fall closed as he lets out a deep breath. “That remains to be seen,” he grumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before twisting his neck and grimacing.

            “Stop falling asleep at the desk,” Abbie commands, handing Crane a coffee mug. “We got you a room for a reason.”

            “That motel is detestable,” he mutters, sipping at the coffee before wrinkling his nose. “Not enough sugar.”

            “Wuss,” she replies maturely. Crane raises an eyebrow. “I know you don’t like it. We’re going to find you somewhere more permanent.”

             Abbie has to admit that she’s relieved when, after a bit of brainstorming, Crane decides that Corbin’s old cabin would be a decent place to set up shop. And it does suit him, really: it’s rustic and off the beaten path and filled with antiquities that Corbin loved and that Crane will appreciate.

             For a minute there, she’d thought it’d actually come down to her letting Crane have the spare bedroom in her apartment. And while she’s getting fond of Crane, god help her, it would’ve been a special sort of hell having him share her living space. She can see in her mind’s eye him and his millions of questions wandering around her house, poking and prodding every little oddity he comes across and wanting an explanation for its function and when it was invented and how it works.

             Abbie usually finds these questions sort of endearing when they aren’t downright annoying (if he has another price-of-water crisis, it’s going on YouTube), but all it takes is Crane running into a box of tampons or, god forbid, her stash of condoms leftover from when she and Luke were still a thing and those questions quickly go from endearing to _oh god stop talking right now_.

             So, no. Her apartment was definitely off the table, but the point is moot anyway. After getting a few preliminary supplies from CVS—because she isn’t cruel enough to inflict Wal-Mart on Crane, not yet—Abbie is helping him get settled into his new home.

             It’s a lot harder than she was expecting. Every inch of that cabin is _Corbin_ ; evidence of his craftsmanship is clear on the floors and walls, his personal taste is tucked into every nook and cranny. It’s like walking inside Corbin’s mind, those first few times she’s been in there, and it makes her ache from something that goes beyond mere heartbreak.

            “Lieutenant.” Abbie jolts out of her thoughts to find Crane’s eyes on her. “Are you well?”

            “Fine,” Abbie replies briskly, unzipping her jacket and sliding it off her shoulders. How long has she been standing there?

            Crane looks her over once more and then inclines his head. “Shall we continue, then?”

            “Absolutely.”

            Corbin kept the cabin pretty neat but there is still some light cleaning that needs to be done. Abbie sets to work unpacking the supplies and tells Crane to get started with the tidying.

            After a few moments of silence except for the rustle of plastic grocery bags, Abbie glances over her shoulder to see Crane giving the can of dusting spray a vexed look.

            “Cap off,” Abbie instructs. Crane manages to pop the orange cap off the canister. “Press the white button on top. Hold it away from your face,” she adds quickly, watching as he turns the can in his hand and sprays. “Spray a surface, then wipe. Easy-peasy.”

            He murmurs his thanks and ducks back into the living room. Abbie wonders if he’s ready to be on his own.

            She’s nearly done putting away the groceries when she hears a sneeze. Then, another.

            Abbie joins him in the living room with a rag of her own. “Little dusty, huh?”

            “One could say that,” Crane manages before sneezing again.

            “I’m not surprised. Corbin spent a lot of time at the station.” She holds out her hand for the can, which Crane passes to her. “I gotta say, though, this place suits you.”

            “I appreciate its remoteness. This country has grown quite loud over the years.”

            Abbie snorts. “Shame the alarm clock didn’t buzz you for the Industrial Revolution. You can blame the noise on them. Now _that_ would’ve been something to see.”

            “Be that as it may, I find that I am becoming acclimated to this time period. It isn’t home, but it is…suitable.”

            “Such high praise,” Abbie jibes. Especially considering the time he came from had no indoor plumbing.

            Crane pauses. “I did not mean to offend.”

            Abbie laughs. “It’ll take a hell of a lot more than that to offend me, Crane. Start talking about emancipation again, though, and we may have a problem or two.” She ducks down to run the rag over the legs of the coffee table. “You aren’t used to cleaning, huh?”

            “What gives you that impression?”

            “I don’t know,” she replies conversationally, ambling back to her feet. “Eighteenth-century English nobleman might have given it away.”

            Crane looks a touch sheepish. “It is true; my household had servants, more than I care to admit. My father had a tendency to treat them with contempt whenever there were minor infractions, and I came to loathe the practice of servitude and slavery as a result of his mistreatment.”

            “And lo, an abolitionist is born,” Abbie fills in.

            “I much preferred the self-sufficiency of life in the Colonies, even for something as menial as cleaning.”

            “You were quite the little radical in your heyday.”

            Crane bows his head. “I may have been called such, yes. Such upsets to the status quo were rarely well-received.”

            “Of all the forebearers who could’ve gotten stuck in 2013, I’m glad it was you, Crane,” Abbie says honestly, thinking of the colossal clusterfuck life would be if she’d gotten saddled with someone less forward-thinking.

            She reaches out to wipe the rag across the mantle when her eyes catch the array of portraits situated there.

            Abbie picks up one of her and Corbin together, taken the day she graduated from the police academy. She’s smiling effervescently, triumphantly, and Corbin is looking down at her, his face a picture of pride.

            “Lieutenant?” Abbie feels rather than sees Crane approach; her eyes are still fixed on the photo. “You are not well. I should not have asked this of you.”

            “It’s fine.”

            “Miss Mills—”

            “I said it’s _fine_ ,” Abbie bites out. She immediately feels bad for it after. “Sorry, it’s just…” Crane is silent. The words come without restraint. “He knew everything about me. He was the first person I ever told the truth about that day in the woods to.”

            Abbie remembers that day all too well. Her first real hard day on the job, a domestic violence call that had gone all wrong from the minute she and Corbin had arrived at the scene. After, Corbin had taken her to Maddy’s diner and had sat in absolute silence, waiting for _her_ , letting her go at her own speed, willing to listen to only what she was willing to tell.

            And she’d told him everything, half-expecting him to call the psychiatric ward and have her carted away. But he’d just listened, watching her as she spilled every dirty little secret. When the tears came, he’d given her his handkerchief and ordered them both pie and told her firmly that she wasn’t crazy and that tomorrow was a brand new day. For the first time since that day in the woods, Abbie wasn’t alone.

            Until the night the Horseman took it all away from her.

            Abbie stares at the photo, gripping the frame so hard that her knuckles start to go white. “I told him everything about me and he understood it. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t push me for more. And then he left me.” She licks her lips. “I hate him for leaving me.”

            “He did not leave you, Miss Mills,” Crane says at length. “He died.”

            “Still hurts the same.” With an unsteady hand, she puts the frame back up on the mantle. Right next to a photo of him and Jenny. It ignites the rage anew inside her. “There was a whole other part of his life that I wasn’t even aware of. He knew everything about me and I thought I knew everything about him. I feel like I’m looking at a stranger. I feel…”

            “Betrayed?” Abbie glances over to Crane, whose eyes are shadowed.

            They both stand in silence for a long time. Eventually, Crane rolls his shoulders and stands up straighter. “Perhaps there are things that the people we love keep from us for our benefit. Things that would put is in grave danger, or cause undue pain if we came to know them.”

            “Is that what you think Katrina did?” Abbie asks carefully.

            “Perhaps,” Crane says again. “Whatever the motivation behind such deceit, I find that it…still hurts the same.”

            Abbie snorts bitterly, folding her arms over her chest. “You may get some answers, one day. That’s something, at least. I’ll never know why Corbin did what he did. I have to make sense of it alone.”

            “The sheriff’s deceit does not negate your feelings for him,” says Crane, turning towards her. “Nor does it take away the fact that he obviously cared a great deal for you. If you cannot find answers, find comfort in the knowledge that you love and were loved by an extraordinary individual.”

            Abbie smiles sadly. “Is that what you tell yourself, too?”

            “It is.”

            “Is it a comfort?”

            “Some days, yes. Other days…”

             “Corbin would’ve liked you,” Abbie says quietly.

            “As I am certain I would have liked him.”

            “You’re certain of that, are you?”

            Crane meets her eyes. “I could not see myself disliking anyone who has earned your respect, Lieutenant. That he is partly responsible for making you into the woman you are today is cause enough for me to hold him in great esteem.”         

            Abbie feels her face warm. Jesus, who the hell _talks_ like that? “Thanks,” she returns, and now it is her turn to look sheepish. Crane merely inclines his head. “Look at us, being all maudlin and self-pitying. Let’s take a break for lunch, hmm? I’m gonna order us some pizza.”

            “But we’ve barely begun.”

            “Yeah, but _pizza_. Get your priorities straight, Crane.”

            Abbie stays in the cabin until just before sunset. By the time she gathers up her jacket, new bedding has been put down, surfaces have been dusted, floors have been swept, and pizza has been devoured. She lets Crane keep the leftovers.

            Before she goes, though, Abbie returns to the mantle. Crane lit a fire an hour ago and it is now burning merrily, casting the pictures above in a warm, golden glow. Carefully, she takes the frame she had been looking at earlier and tucks it into her bag.

            It isn’t a coincidence that Crane came into her life the same day Corbin died. He might not be here with her anymore, but Abbie likes to think that somewhere, he’s having an apple pie a la mode and looking down on her, nudging her in the right direction.

             

           

* * *

 

            4. Luke

 

            It’s seven AM and Abbie’s back is _still_ searing and the scent of garbage and sewer water is still pervasive despite two showers and a dose of fifty-dollar perfume. She’d managed to drag herself out of a manhole, dust herself off and be at her desk on time because there is, quite literally, _nothing_ that Moloch could cook up that would be even half as intimidating as Frank Irving when he worked himself into a snit over epic backlogs of paperwork.

            She’d managed it, but it was a near thing.

            So Abbie is here, running on a good forty minutes of sleep and three cups of coffee plus a Red Bull, trying to get her vision to focus on the screen of her laptop when Luke plops down in the chair opposite of her.

            You know, because her morning couldn’t get any worse.

            “Hey, Abbs,” he says in greeting, perfectly innocuous and pleasant.

            “Luke.” She plucks away at her keyboard.

            Luke looks around. “Where’s the Brit?”

            “Not here,” Abbie smarms flatly, and that in and of itself is bullshit. Crane was the one who’d led her on the merry romp through Sleepy Hollow’s underbelly looking for the Demon du Jour with the claws until oh-fuck-hundred in the morning. How dare he elect to pass out on Corbin’s four poster and call hogs while she suffers fully conscious?

             She bites back a yawn that turns into half a groan when, in an attempt to stretch her muscles, the claw marks on her back flare with pain. She grimaces, trying to twist into a more comfortable position on the chair before taking up typing again.

            “Long night, you two?” Luke inquires.

            Abbie snorts, because what kind of _understatement_. “Like you would not believe.”

            “Oh,” is all Luke says in reply, and the strange tone he says it in registers about five seconds later when she goes over the words in her head.

            She glances up and takes in the look on Luke’s face and oh for the love of _god_.

            “Luke,” Abbie starts to amend, spreading her hands diplomatically, only to be cut off.

            “No, it’s—it’s fine. I get it,” Luke says even though _no_ , no he _doesn’t_ , but he continues before Abbie can get a word in edgewise. “I mean, I wouldn’t have thought stoic and professorial was your type, or that you’d rebound so quickly—”

            “Luke,” Abbie tries again, a nerve twitching in her temple.

            “—but I’m happy for you. Really.” Luke wrinkles his nose. “Okay, no, that’s a lie—”

            She wonders what Irving would do if she fired a few warning shots into the station’s ceiling. Just one or two. “ _Luke_.”

            “—but I can’t pretend I didn’t see this coming, you know? You two spend a lot of time together and god, the way he looks at you—”

            “The way he looks at me?” Abbie repeats before shifting gears because hey, that’s really not the priority here. “Luke, we aren’t—I’m not sleeping with him.”

            And thank Christ, Luke stops. He takes a moment to collect himself, blinking. “You aren’t.”

            “That’s right.” Abbie pauses, then adds pointedly, “Not that it’s any of your business.”

            But Luke, bless him, is still hung up on ten seconds ago. “You two aren’t together.”

            The relief in those words makes Abbie supremely uncomfortable. “No, we aren’t.”

            “Jesus.” Luke drags a hand over his face and chuckles half-heartedly. “God, I just…that must’ve all sounded really dumb.”

            Truth be told, Abbie still likes Luke. He’s gotten a touch abrasive since the break-up but there’s still affection there, and they had been friends for a while before they got together. But Luke had always been prone to bouts of jealousy. It wasn’t cute then and it isn’t cute now.

            But Abbie doesn’t have the heart to kick him when he’s down, so she lets it go. “No more than anything else you say,” she says with mirth.

            He gives her a lopsided smile. “I don’t know how you put up with me for so long.”

            “Xanax is magical, lemme tell you.”

            “Okay, Abbs, okay,” he says, waving his hand. “I screwed up. My bad. Can I make it up to you?”

            _Yeah, tell me what in the deep-fried hell you meant when you were saying how Crane looks at me._

            Abbie merely nods at the pile of folders next to her. “Grab some. I’d like to make it home before New Years.”

            “The life of a cop,” Luke comments, pulling his chair closer to his desk. After a second, he looks up. “Are you wearing the perfume I got you?”

            Slowly, she raises her eyes to his. “Luke.”

            “Files. Grunt work. Right.”

            And he works beside her in absolute silence. It’s good to know that after everything—even that bit of weirdness after their aborted coffee meet-up—there might still be the possibility of friendship. Maybe one day, she’ll be able to tell Luke the truth about what was going on in Sleepy Hollow.

 

* * *

 

            3. Irving

 

            Abbie counts every single one of the excruciating forty five seconds that passes before Irving finally speaks.

            “You,” he says, with a hell of a lot more restraint than Abbie thought him capable of, “are not going to say a word. Not a single syllable. Is that clear?”

            And Crane, _bless_ , splutters. “I beg your pardon?”

            “I have a gun,” Irving says calmly, “and I will shoot you if you don’t stop speaking. Now.”

            And oh, Abbie knows that look twisting Crane’s face, the telltale flush of indignation beginning to dapple his pale cheeks with splotches of red.

            “Now see _here_ ,” Crane starts in the Baked-Goods-Levies-Voice and Irving’s hand starts for his holster.

            “Lieutenant, get your boy.”

            “Time to zip it, Crane,” says Abbie—not because she’s on Irving’s side, but because she’s caught herself getting fond of Crane and she doesn’t want him to get shot.

            Crane, poor guy, gives her a completely different sort of look: one of betrayal. Which Abbie supposes is warranted because this isn’t Crane’s fault, not entirely. Granted, this whole thing was Crane’s idea and granted there was an evil hell-ghost swooping over their grave in a way that seemed distinctly agitated, but it could have been a lot worse.

            “How long until dawn?” Irving asks, voice dull.

            “Little less than four hours,” Abbie supplies, looking up at the small rectangle of sky above her head.

            “Well this would’ve been just perfect if it had actually worked on say, the poltergeist instead of us,” Irving comments, pinching the bridge  of his nose.

            The way Crane had explained it to her, the hex they unearthed weeks ago would trap the souls of anyone who crossed it. It was old, powerful magic that Abbie didn’t quite believe in until this very moment. “At least it’s gonna wear off at sunrise.”

            “You sure about that?” Irving inquires flatly. Crane glares at him. “Well, we’ve got four hours stuck in this damn grave. I never thought trying to thwart an impending apocalypse would give us so much down time. And me without my iPod.”

            Somewhere to Abbie’s left, she hears scrabbling in the dirt. She twists on top of the casket to point her flashlight in that direction.

            “Please don’t tell me the guy underneath us is about to wake up,” says Irving.

            “I think it’s just mice, sir.”

            “And this night keeps getting better and better.” After a minute, Irving snorts. “At least I’ll have a good story to tell my daughter when I see her next week.”

            “You’re gonna omit the part about the poltergeist and the impending apocalypse, yes?”

            “Those are the best parts, though,” Irving responds in an even tone, eyes lifting. The poltergeist is hovering over the edge of the grave, staring down at them with empty sockets and sharp teeth. It tilts its head as though confused, lets out a little whine and swoops up again, diving for the invisible barrier and bouncing off of it like a rubber dog toy.

            “I cannot believe that this is what my life has become,” Irving mutters, rolling his eyes and letting his head fall back against the earthen wall. “All that’s missing is the proton pack.”

            Abbie snorts. “We should start a support group; the Sleepy Hollow Assembly of Lunatics. We could hand out fliers. Every inductee gets a free psych eval.”

            “You’re remarkably calm about all this.”

            “I’ve had a longer period of adjustment than you,” Abbie says casually, watching the poltergeist poke its head into the grave again. Just out of curiosity, she raises her gun, aims, and fires.

            The poltergeist shrieks and takes to the air again, howling like a monkey. Irving watches, frowning. “Now see, what’s gonna happen when we get out of here and that thing wants to eat your face?”

            “According to Crane, the spell that summoned it is only going to last until sunup, too.”

            “Like this trap was _only_ supposed to work on the ghost?”

            Crane’s arched eyebrow calls Irving an idiot. Irving returns it with a look so deadly that it could give the Horseman a run for his money.

            “So does life ever get normal again?” Irving asks after his little staring contest with Crane is over. Abbie calls it a draw.

            “Normal,” Abbie repeats. “As in coffee and donuts in the morning and routine patrols and paperwork?”

            “A man can dream.”

            “Demons, ghosts, the end of days, and trying to keep it all a secret? I think it’s safe to say normal is over.” Abbie snorts, head falling back. “Some people aren’t meant for normal, sir.”

            Irving digests this in silence for a long moment. “Tell me, Lieutenant. If the apocalypse hadn’t oh-so-jauntily paraded itself through town, what would you have done with your life?”

            Abbie considers the question, a little taken aback. Next to her, she feels Crane perk up. “I guess…Quantico, then the FBI.”

            Irving grunts noncommittally. “What about family?”

            “I don’t know…maybe?” Abbie can’t see herself married and pregnant and in a little house with a picket fence.

            “I meant your family here.”

            “Well, Jenny was in and out of lock-up and hospitals—”

            “Not what I meant again,” Irving interrupts. “What about Ike and Ida?”

            That has Abbie’s mouth snapping closed. “How do you know—?”

            “I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Lieutenant.” Irving gives her a conspiratory look. “I’m a _policeman_ , and policemen and women are generally very good at investigating.”

            “Their names aren’t in my file.”

            “I know; I read your file.”

            Annoyance bubbles up inside Abbie like lava. “You don’t have the right—”

            “When one of my cops is running around talking about headless men on horses and Armageddon, I’m going to have a few follow-up questions,” says Irving. “One of them was finding out how stable you are and your upbringing plays a part in that, don’t you think? Now,” he continues, shifting on the casket to face her more, “I may not have a right to the answer to that question and you certainly aren’t obligated to tell me, but I’d like to know all the same.”

            Abbie licks her lips and chooses her next words carefully. “If you know about Ike and Ida, then you already know the answer.”

            “I know that you were in their care from the day your mother was taken away, and that your sister was too until the incident in the woods.”

            Abbie scoffs. They’d been all too happy to see Jenny go, too. “My sister and I both turned into criminals. Fill in the blanks.”

            “Were you abused?” Irving asks bluntly and the shock of the question robs Abbie of thought for a second, and she hesitates long enough to give it away. “And there’s my answer.”

            “It wasn’t abuse,” Abbie says unevenly, smoothing her hair out of her face. “They never hit us.”

            “You and I both know that abuse describes a lot more than the physical, Lieutenant.” Irving’s eyes bore into hers. “What did they do?”

            “There was—yelling,” Abbie responds after a deep breath. “There may have been some name-calling. Missed meals. Little things like that.”

            “I see. And _little things_ like that had you stealing and self-medicating with dope and pills, huh?”

            “With all due respect, sir, this is none of your business.”

            “You’re absolutely right. I went too far and I’m sorry.” And thankfully, Irving lets it go.

            Abbie, heart still racing, leans back into the wall again only to turn and see Crane’s eyes burning a hole into her face. She can’t read his expression but she knows that as smart as he is, he’s putting two and two together. After all, she’d known too readily the signs to look for visiting Jenny’s last foster home.

            Ike and Ida were older and set in their ways. Abbie endured them because it was stability and she hadn’t wanted to become one of those kids bouncing around the system, but she’d damn sure run away when she turned seventeen and thought she could make it on her own.

            “Oh, look who’s back,” Irving says and Abbie diverts her gaze to above them. The poltergeist is hovering at the edge of the grave, watching them cautiously.

            Abbie reaches for her gun again. “I bet I can get it in the left eye socket.”

            “Ten dollars says you miss."

            “Done,” replies Abbie, raising her pistol. The shot rings out through the night air and the three of them watch the bullet sail through the ghost’s left eye. It shrieks again and darts out of view.

            “Damn. I got dibs the next time he comes back.”

            “Is this Captain Frank Irving having _fun_?”

            “Tell anyone and die," Irving responds. "I guess things could be worse.”

            A drop of rain hits Abbie right on the nose. She sighs. “You just _had_ to say something.”

            They wait in silence, eyes peeled to the sky and the gathering clouds. Irving clears his throat. “Ike Sydney was arrested two days ago. Drunk and disorderly. I’m throwing the book at him.” Irving cocks his pistol. “Just thought you’d like to know.”

            “Hmm,” is all Abbie says.

            When the rain begins in earnest, Crane shrugs out of his coat and drapes it over Abbie’s shoulders. Irving rolls his eyes.

 

* * *

 

            2. Jenny

 

            Luke had told her once that he pictured her just springing up out of the ground at age twenty-eight, badge on her chest and gun in her hand. Abbie isn’t forthright with tales of her past, so Luke’s backstory was as good an explanation as any. One night after a bad day, she got drunk and ended up telling Luke about her parents, about Jenny sans the demon in the woods because at that point, Abbie had all but convinced herself that she really hadn’t seen anything.

            Luke had let her spill her heart out without speaking, without trying to offer any kind of physical comfort and Abbie had been grateful for it. Then, he said, “You are the most well-adjusted person I know, Abbs.” 

            Abbie had laughed until she cried and resigned herself to the fact that Luke, sweet and caring and strong, was never going to understand her.

            She is not well-adjusted. She’s a high school dropout and a former criminal and a former pill addict and while Corbin would always point out that the operative word there is _former_ , Abbie knows better. There was a time in the not-too-distant past when Abbie lived day to day numb inside, afraid to get close to anyone because they all always ended up leaving, or dying.

            But as bad as Abbie has it, she knows that Jenny has had it so much worse. It’s not something she would’ve admitted ten years ago, or even two years ago, but she knows it now. And somewhere deep down underneath all the _formers_ , Abbie is still a big sister. That makes Jenny and all that she endured her responsibility.

            Having Jenny back in her life is complicated. But so is everything else in her life now, so really what’s one more thing? After the Horseman escapes the cell with Brooks in tow, Abbie takes Jenny to her apartment where she’s set up the spare bedroom.

            “I’d’ve thought Paul Revere would be here,” Jenny comments that first night as she hauls her duffle bag onto the bed. “Unless he’s in _your_ bed.”

            “Funny,” Abbie says humorlessly. “He stays in Corbin’s cabin.”

            Jenny stills. “Ah.”

            “Yeah.” The silences stretches on and oh _yeah_ , this is gonna be fun. Abbie clears her throat before the awkward silence suffocates them both. “I stocked the fridge, but I wasn’t sure what you like. If there’s something missing or something you specifically want, you can make a list and I’ll get it for you.”

            “Well aren’t you just the cutest little homemaker.”

            Abbie grits her teeth. “I _am_ trying, here.”

            Jenny sets her hands on the bed and rolls her shoulders, sighing. “Sorry,” she says, casting a look at Abbie from over her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter what you have, anyway. I’ll only be here for a few days.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “I’ve got some things to check out,” replies Jenny, removing a pistol from her bag.

            Abbie crosses her arms. “Really.”

            “There’s a whole world outside Sleepy Hollow,” Jenny announces with wide, dramatic eyes, “a world that even mental institution patients are a part of.”

            Abbie closes her eyes, patience fading at an alarming rate. “Jenny—”

            “I’ve got connections,” her sister interrupts, “and some of these connections have resources we could use for the war.”

            “War,” Abbie repeats. It still sounds so fucking _nuts_ in her head, even after all she’s seen and learned. Jenny says it like it’s inevitable.

            “Isn’t that what you call it when two opposing sides meet in continuous battles? Do you really think you can do it on your own, you and the five-oh and Doctor Who? You’re gonna need help.”

            Jenny’s got her there. “What kind of resources?”

            “Anything you could imagine, there’s a way to get,” says Jenny. “Weapons, information. _Magic_. It’s all just a matter of finding it.”

            “And you can find what we need?”

            Jenny smiles a smile that scares Abbie. “I can. The last ten years may have turned you into a cop, but they’ve made me a soldier. And we’re going to war.”

            Three days later, Jenny is on a plane bound for Vietnam. Two weeks later, Abbie gets a postcard with a palm tree on it that reads, “Chasing a lead on a demonologist manuscript, en route to Abu Dhabi, say hi to the Doctor for me”.

            Abbie shows Crane the postcard and watches a line form between his brows, wondering which statement on the card he'll ask her about first. “Vietnam is on the other side of the world from this continent. How is it possible that she reached it so quickly?”

            She suddenly recalls a conversation she and Crane had had when they were trying to figure out what was going on with the decapitated Masons. _London, a three month voyage by sea_.

            An hour or so later, Abbie is pulling into Westchester County Airport. Crane, who has been silent in contemplation for almost the entire drive, something hitherto unknown, shoots forward in the passenger seat as the ground rumbles. “What on earth is that sound?”

            Abbie grins. So the whole Ambassador to the Future thing had a payoff.

            They spend the whole afternoon at the airport, sitting on top of the roof of her jeep and passing a package of Oreos back and forth, watching planes take off and land. In the end, Crane only asks her one question.

            “Do these planes fly to England?”

            Abbie nods, smiling. “Get on one of those and London is only about eight hours away.”

            Crane stares at her and then back up at the sky with renewed wonder. Abbie offers him the last Oreo and makes a mental promise to take him there, someday.

            Jenny’s postcards become a normal fixture in Abbie’s life. They are more regular than Abbie would’ve thought Jenny capable of and though most of them contain short messages that sometimes Abbie doesn’t even fully understand, they are definitely welcome.

            “Why does she not use the telephone?” Crane asks her one day after the eleventh postcard. “Surely that would be a far more efficient way to communicate and Miss Jenny seems to value efficiency.”

            “Yeah well, I’m not gonna push my luck,” Abbie says, because maybe this is Jenny’s way to reacclimatize herself with Abbie.

            And Jenny’s definitely securing more than a few assets for the coming war while Abbie and Crane hold down the fort in Sleepy Hollow. Some packages come in over the course of the next five months: instructions for a special kind of demon trap ritual _thing_ that Jenny has marked ‘ _could be important’_ , a shoebox full of correspondence between Benjamin Franklin and an archeologist in Rome that Jenny procured from god knows where that has Crane practically salivating, a neat velvet box containing two twin amulets on delicate ropes of silver that comes with a note, ‘ _no useful purpose, just thought you and the professor might dig them_ ’. 

            “Your sister is a most peculiar woman,” Crane says, turning over postcard number nineteen. From Boise, of all places.

            “Who’re you telling?” Abbie mutters.

            “According to this card, it seems Miss Jenny will be back in New York for Christmas. Fortuitous.”

            “What is?”

            “That you and your sister will be together for the holiday.” Abbie stares at him and Crane’s handsome face morphs into a frown. “Won’t you?”

            “I…suppose,” Abbie hedges, wondering how to tactfully explain to Crane that Abbie Mills didn’t _do_ holidays, ever. All Christmas did was remind Abbie of everything she’d lost.

            “Christmas is a time for families to be together,” Crane insists a touch tenaciously, and son of a bitch, this is gonna be a _thing_ , isn’t it?

            “We’re not much of a family,” Abbie replies, and it is absolutely the wrong thing to say.

            “Nonsense! You are sisters, both of whom have suffered the loss of too many family and friends already. I should think you would be grateful to still have one another and want to be together on the eve of our savior’s birth.”

            She’s gonna let the _our savior_ slide because atheism is a can of worms Crane doesn’t need to be exposed to right now, and truth be told she’s not sure where she stands on the issue herself as she’s trying to stop the biblically prophesized apocalypse and all.

            “You’re projecting,” is what she says instead, and that is _also_ absolutely the wrong thing to say.

            Crane’s expression goes blank. Then, it goes quite sad and Abbie feels like a bitch. “Perhaps I am. In truth, I too am…reluctant to observe the day, myself. Those who I used to share such occasions with are long dead. I have never spent Christmas alone before.”

            Abbie stares at him. “You really think you’ll be spending it alone, Crane?”

            Crane blinks. “I—”

            “You’ll have to sleep on the couch if Jenny’s coming. That all right with you?”

            Crane smiles. Abbie pretends not to be ridiculously enchanted by it.

           

~*~

             It’s six PM on Christmas Eve when Jenny shows up at Abbie’s door, duffle bag slung over one shoulder and a bottle of booze dangling from her hand. She holds it up in front of Abbie, expression open and expectant.

            “Crane’s here,” Abbie says, stepping aside and allowing Jenny to come in out of the cold.

            “Color me shocked,” Jenny returns without bite. She drops her duffle on the floor and follows Abbie to the kitchen, stopping midway to poke her head in the living room, which is lit colorfully by the lights on the Christmas tree. And the ones lining the mantle.

            Yeah, Abbie may have gone a little Donna Reed.

            Jenny takes in the decorations for a moment, then turns to Abbie with an arched eyebrow.

            “Yeah,” Abbie mutters, rubbing the back of her neck. There’s no explaining that.

            “You don’t do holidays,” Jenny points out.

            “Thought I’d get some festivities in before the apocalypse, you know.” It sounds feeble even to her own ears. Abbie thinks she should be ashamed of herself, but the memory of Crane’s _face_ when he saw her living room fully decorated that very first night…oh, fuck it.

            When Jenny smirks, Abbie knows she knows. “Aww. Icky’s First Christmas.”

            “Pretty sure they had Christmas in the eighteenth century.”

            Jenny rolls her eyes. “You know what I  mean. You went all out for him.”

            “I didn’t do it for _him_ ,” Abbie argues, even though it’s mostly a lie. A bald-faced lie. Shit.

            Jenny glances back into the living room and then shrugs. “Just as well, since you were never tall enough to put the star on top of the tree by yourself.”

            “Shut up,” Abbie says petulantly, leading her sister into the kitchen where she left Crane minding the turkey in the oven.

            “Yo, Patriot,” calls Jenny.

            Crane turns. “Miss Jenny. It is a pleasure to see you again. Happy Christmas.”

            He gives her a gallant little bow. Jenny’s eyebrows hit the ceiling and Abbie frowns; Crane only ever bowed that ridiculous bow at _her_.

            …Oh, she is outside her goddamn mind.

            “Ditto,” Jenny says slowly, still eyeing Crane up and down. “You in charge of dinner? Can’t imagine you know much about cooking, given the time period you come from.”

            “I admit that my culinary skills are lacking,” Crane acknowledges. “However, one learns to adapt, given that the Lieutenant and I have different definitions of the word food.”

            He looks impish. Abbie stares at him, raising a hand to her chest. “ _Ow_. See if I ever buy you donut holes again, you ungrateful little shit.”

            “Ah, vulgarity. Because that will certainly assist in solidifying your argument.”

            “It will assist in solidifying that you are an asshole. A sarcastic, ungrateful asshole.”

            “Whelp,” Jenny says, glancing between them and smirking, “even if the dinner doesn’t come out well, I brought the most important course.”

            “Pudding?” Crane inquires.

            “E & J.”

            The dinner turns out _fine_ , thank you very much. Maybe it’s the brandy, but whatever awkwardness that is lingering between Abbie and her sister seems absent tonight. Jenny regales them both with tales of her time abroad, of all that she learned and acquired and in turn, Abbie tells her about what’s been going down in Sleepy Hollow since she’s been gone. Crane, for the most part, looks content simply listening.

            When they’ve had their fill, Abbie sets to the dishes while Jenny dries them. She puts Crane on table clearing duty because 1781 or not, he’s not gonna eat a meal she prepared without at least helping to clean it up.

            “This was nice,” says Jenny, swirling her rag around a wet glass. “Different…but nice.”

            “Yeah.” Abbie waits a moment before saying, “Remember those Christmases with Mom?”

            “Of course. Mom always cooked enough food to last us for days, even though it was just us three.” Jenny’s eyes go distant, mouth relaxing into a gentle smile. “Remember the year with the bunt cake?”

            “Oh god,” Abbie laughs, shaking her head. “I thought she was going to kill us.”

            “I mean, what did she expect, making it early and leaving it hanging around in the fridge? Of _course_ we ate it.”

             “You ate most of it.”

            “I did not!”

            “Yeah, you did,” Abbie argues, still laughing. “All I wanted was a little piece but you ate all the frosting.”

            “Hmm,” Jenny grunts, setting the glass aside. She pauses before reaching into the strainer for another. “You know what else I remember?”

            “What’s that?”

            “When Mom confronted the both of us the next morning, I remember you taking the blame. I remember you standing there and saying that you did it, that I was asleep the whole night.”

            Abbie goes still, but only for a moment. She continues scrubbing a pot and doesn’t look at her sister. “A lotta good that did. Mom knew I was lying.”

            “Mom asked you why you lied to protect me,” Jenny goes on. “Remember what you said?”

            “No,” Abbie lies.

            “You said, ‘That’s what big sisters do’.”

            A lump forms in the back of Abbie’s throat. “I can’t believe you remember that,” she says, aiming for humor but landing somewhere just south of choked up. Bitterness fills her up as though it were a living, breathing animal inside her. “Some big sister I turned out to be, huh.”

            Jenny doesn’t respond to that right away and hell, Abbie can’t really blame her. She scrubs viciously at the pot, trying to pretend that she doesn’t feel the weight of Jenny’s eyes on the side of her neck.

            “Maybe the jury’s still out,” Jenny says finally.

            Tears burn the back of Abbie’s eyes. “Maybe.”

            When the dishes are done, Abbie finds that Crane has wandered into the living room and is selecting one of the candy canes from the tree. Abbie watches him frown and twist it around in his fingers.

            “Hey,” Jenny says, bumping her shoulder and handing her another glass of brandy. “What’re the chances we could get him drunk?”

            “Willingly?” Abbie inquires, still watching Crane. “Slim to none. I’ve never seen him drink more than one glass of wine.”

            “Oh, but think of the possibilities. Think of the blackmail material.” Jenny nods, raising her glass to her lips. “I bet we could intoxicate the straight-laced right out of him.”

            And…yeah, there’s a thought.

            “You know he’s married, right?” Abbie says, wondering if it’s more for her benefit or her sister’s.

            “You know I don’t care, right?” Jenny returns. Abbie’s eyes widen and she waves her hand. “Anybody I date has to know how to drive.”

            “Because you need getaway drivers.” Jenny looks over at her and smirks. “You know, Crane’s kind of a genius. I bet he could learn fast.”

            “Are you volunteering to teach him?” Jenny asks.

            Abbie considers her statement. A sharp snap has them both looking in Crane’s direction. In his hand, the candy cane has cracked into nothing more than little jagged pieces and minty powder, still wrapped tightly in plastic. Crane is looking at it with a forlorn expression. 

            Abbie straightens. “You know what? Forget I said anything.”

            Jenny laughs then, and Abbie had almost forgotten what that sounded like. She clinks her glass against Abbie’s and grins. “Merry Christmas, Abbs.”

* * *

 

           1. Katrina

 

            It isn’t fair that the Headless Horseman has a gun. _Guns_. Really, it isn’t.

            Abbie doesn’t know what kind of preparation the big guy upstairs did when planning for the end of days, but she’s pretty sure it’s bullshit that He didn’t bestow on His Witnesses some kind of supernatural advantage. And Abbie isn’t picky; she’ll take anything at this point, even the water-into-wine thing. At least then, Molotov cocktails might be an on-hand option.

            But _no_ , all she and Crane have are their wits and each other, and whatever the 21st century could supply them with. Which pretty much amounts to _fuck all_ when one of the horsemen of the apocalypse has super strength, super speed, a thirst for revenge and a bevy of demons and night terrors at his beck and call to help him enact it, a giant fucking axe and now, firearms.

            And a horse. Fuck that horse.

            The moments leading up to it are kind of a blur. Abbie remembers the burn in her lungs and in her quads as she and Crane beat feet down the wooded path, remembers the thunderous, gut-wrenching _sound_ of the horse and its rider coming after them, the terror that had bolted through her like lightening as she realized that the sounds were getting louder and closer and that the safety and salvation of dawn was still twenty minutes away and thinking that there was no way they were gonna make it, that this was the end. She remembers the harsh sound of her panting and Crane’s as they raced through the forest, remembers turning to glance back over her shoulder to see the Horseman wielding a rifle in his hand, cocking it, and pointing it straight forward, _straight at Crane’s back_ —

            She remembers jackknifing to the right and putting every single ounce of strength she had left in her body to slam herself into him, knocking him off his feet before the gunshot rang through the air and there was searing, unimaginable _pain_ as hot lead tore open her back.

            She  remembers the way he sounded as he screamed her name. And then, nothing at all.

            When she comes to, Abbie is still in the woods. Only, they seem darker now and eerily still. She looks around and ambles to her feet and has wandered a few steps before she realizes that there’s no pain, and that isn’t right.

            “Crane?” she finds herself calling, eyes darting from tree to tree, half-terrified she’s going to turn and see four white ones standing ominously at her back. But the forest around her is dark and damp and wisps of fog curling around the lower-lying areas are the only white around. 

            “Crane!” she tries again a little louder, heart thudding a staccato beat against her chest because nothing about this forest is familiar and the silence is sinister in a way that Abbie can’t quite explain. Her footsteps grow faster and faster until she’s running again, running and yelling his name and searching frantically for some sign, any sign that she isn’t alone because she _can’t_ be alone, she can’t—

            “Miss Mills.”

            Abbie whips around to see a figure emerging from the shadows. “ _Katrina_?” Crane’s wife inclines her head, her expression grim. “Am I dreaming?” Abbie asks, remembering the last time she’d seen Katrina Crane.

            Katrina shakes her head. “I am afraid not. You are here, in the realm I have been imprisoned in.”

            Abbie’s mouth goes dry. “What do you mean?”

            “This is a world between worlds, a place where souls of those that have been cast adrift are drawn.”

            Her heart sinks. “I’m…?” She can’t get her mouth around the word.

            “You are dying, Miss Mills.”

            Abbie’s knees buckle and she has to reach out for the sturdy trunk of the tree to steady her. _Dying_. “Then…the Horseman got me. Moloch has me now.”

            Katrina approaches her. “No. When your life force wanes, your soul will be free to move on.”

            “Move on?” Abbie repeats weakly. “Move on to where?”

            “To what comes next.” Katrina looks beyond her, eyes trailing the woods around them. Abbie follows her gaze and finds the gentle slope of a hill. Something is glowing beyond the crest of it.

            She looks back to Katrina. “Is that…is that Heaven?” Katrina smiles gently. “But Moloch—”

            “You took into yourself a fatal blow that was meant for another,” says Katrina, eyes warm. “You gave your life willingly as a sacrifice. You are dying a martyr, Miss Mills, and because of this, your soul is cleansed. Moloch cannot touch you here.”

            Abbie lets out a breath, turning her eyes towards the light again. The crest of the hill is bathed in white now, pure white light that is creeping closer and closer to her. “I don’t have a lot of time, do I?” she asks softly.

            “Mere moments now,” Katrina affirms, catching her gaze again and holding it. “You believed that you and Ichabod were ill-equipped as Witnesses, but you have more power than you know.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “You have been granted the most precious gift of all—the gift of a choice.” Katrina motions to the light dawning over the hill. “You may choose to move on, or you may choose not to.”

            Abbie’s breath catches. “You mean I can live?”

            “It will not be easy,” Katrina warns. “The injuries you sustained are great and recovering will be long and arduous. Beyond that, you are still the second Witness. I know the weight of the task before you sits heavily on your mind; it is a burden few would be able to bear,” she intones sympathetically. Katrina nods back to the hill. “You can move on, spare yourself from it.”

            The forest seems to grow brighter with every breath Abbie takes. “If I do…what will happen? Will the world end?”

            Katrina considers her question. “The future is not certain. It never is.”

            “That’s not very convincing,” Abbie mutters.

            “The allies that you and Ichabod have gathered are strong,” Katrina continues, “as is my husband. They will fight as hard as they can for as long as they can, and what will be will be.”

            Helpful as always. Abbie rubs the back of her neck and lets herself consider it. She is tired of nightmares and demons and always being afraid. It would be so easy to let that light creep closer and consume her, to move on and _rest_ —god, how long has it been since she’s actually rested, without worrying what would happen the moment she closed her eyes, about which of her friends would die next?

            Abbie is so _tired_ of it all.

            “There is something I can tell you.”  Abbie’s eyes shoot back to a solemn-faced Katrina. “Your death will have consequences.”

            Dread coils in her belly like a snake. Abbie steels herself and lifts her chin. “Go on.”

            “Your allies are strong,” Katrina reiterates, “but your loss will test their resolve like nothing they are ever likely to face fighting Moloch. It may cripple those closest to you.”

            “Jenny,” Abbie says hoarsely.

            “Your captain would lose his best lieutenant. Sleepy Hollow would lose its staunchest defender.” Katrina’s eyes fall closed. “And Ichabod…”

            Abbie’s heart twists at the grief in her voice. “Yes?”

            “It would devastate him,” says Katrina, and Abbie’s heart _clenches_. “He will take responsibility for your death and bear it like a cross. He will no longer trust himself or his abilities, and it will hinder every single step he takes from now until the end.”

            Each word is like a knife in Abbie’s gut, somehow so much worse than the memory of the bullet flying through her back. “I thought you said you didn’t know the future.”

            Sad eyes bore into hers. “I know my husband. As do you.”

            Abbie holds her gaze for a long moment before gritting her teeth. Fucking _fuck_. Over the slope, the light flashes.

            “If you wish to remain, now is the time,” Katrina says urgently. “Your life is drawing to a close.”

            Abbie knows what she has to do. Hell, she knew it the minute Katrina gave her the choice. It isn’t that she doesn’t want to move on; she _does_ , with every fiber of her being. Running is what she does best, after all. She’s weary and wrung thin and still petrified of everything that lies ahead of her, but she knows what she has to do. What she _would_ do even if the fate of the world wasn’t riding on her.

            And anyway, if Abbie strolled through the pearly gates, there was a good chance that Corbin would be there waiting for her, eyes filled to the brim with disappointment that had always hurt her more than anything else in the world, and…well, that’s just not Abbie Mills’ idea of paradise.

            “Have you decided?” Katrina inquires when she opens her eyes again.

            “I have.” And before she even says anything, Katrina is smiling. “What?”

            “When next you see my husband, tell him that his heart is far too precious a thing to let wither away on the meager sustenance of memory. Please,” she adds lightly.

            Abbie blinks, because what the _hell_. “How did you even know I was going to go back?”

            “Perhaps I know you, too,” Katrina offers. “Till we meet again, Lieutenant.”

            The light douses, the world around her vanishes, and then Abbie is falling into oblivion.

           

* * *

 

         +1. Ichabod

 

            Consciousness drifts back to Abbie slowly, rolling over her body like an ice cold fog. The first thing she becomes aware of is the steady drone of the discordant beep somewhere to her right. Well, the first thing after the pain.

            Every single inch of Abbie’s body _hurts_. Even breathing seems to burn her lungs, but the air is at least fresh and cool. She experiments with a little twist of her neck and then everything in her head is thrown off balance and dizziness overtakes her so roughly and suddenly that a sound forces its way up through her throat.

            And even through the vertigo and the wave of nausea, Abbie can sense movement behind tightly closed eyelids. A familiar voice calls to her.

            “Abbs? Abbie?” Warm fingers tuck themselves into hers. “You awake?”

            Abbie wants to ask her to define _awake_ but what comes out instead is another garbled bit of sound.

            The fingers on her hand get tighter and then Abbie feels a little puff of breath against her forehead. “Oh. Thank fuck.”

            And then Abbie is clawing her way through the dizziness to force her eyes open because excruciating pain or not, she is not about to miss seeing Jennifer Mills actually _cry_.

            The world is horridly bright. “M’here,” says Abbie, squinting up at the blurry mass she thinks is her sister.

            “Thank _fuck_ ,” Jenny croaks again and if she were able, Abbie would’ve smiled knowing that Crane is about two seconds away from spluttering some admonishment at the _great_ _indignity_ of the f-bomb.

            In the silence, everything comes rushing back to Abbie in a single heartbeat and she goes numb and rasps out, “ _Crane—_ Jenny, Crane was with me—”

            “Fine, he’s fine,” says Jenny and she can breathe again. Sensation returns and Abbie winces. “Are you in pain? Here, the button for the morphine—”

            And then there is sweet, sweet relief rushing through her veins. Abbie settles back into the bedding and tries to take a calming breath. The world is still spinning. “What happened?”

            “You were shot. Bullet nicked your heart,” Jenny says evenly and when Abbie cracks her eyes open again, her sister’s face is clear. Grave and _pale_ and long black lashes damp, but clear. “Six hours in surgery, Abbie. _Six_. They lost you on the table twice.” Jenny looks away and sniffs. “Fuck.”

            Abbie flexes her fingers in her sister’s hand. Jenny sniffles once more and suddenly she is seven years old again and Abbie is ten and they are sitting on a hard police station bench, alone, and Jenny is asking her _why_ with heartbroken baby doe eyes. “M’okay.”

            “You _weren’t_.”

            “M’gonna be.”

            “Hmph.”

            Abbie manages to gather enough strength to squeeze Jenny’s hand. The world goes off kilter again. “You were here for six hours?”

            “With the tone of surprise,” Jenny chides almost playfully as she wipes her nose. “Yeah, the minute I got the call. Irving’s in and out, too—he’s trying to put together a team to get after the Horseman. Again. Wendy brought flowers and about half the department with her. Oh, and some guy named Luke who says he’s your ex which I don’t believe because you’re supposed to be the _sane_ one—”

            Typical Jenny, trying her even while she’s on a hospital bed. “Jenny,” attempts Abbie, but Jenny’s long gone.

            “—and you would never date someone with such bad taste in shoes and on no plane of existence is it _remotely_ fair that your rebound gets to be some tall, deep-voiced foreign dude with eyes like a—”

            “Not my rebound,” Abbie manages through another wave of dizziness.

            “You tell that to the set of puppy dog eyes lurking outside the door.”

            Abbie blinks. “Crane’s here too?”

            “You know, we’re really gonna have to rethink that whole sane-sister thing because if you thought for a single moment that he would be somewhere _else_ —”

            “He’s okay?”

            Jenny nods. Then, her face changes, goes somber. “He was really worried about you, Abbs. Irving’s been needling him for hours but he won’t tell anyone anything about what happened other than that the Horseman chased you two down and shot you, and that it was his fault.” Jenny tilts her head. “There a story there?”

            Abbie sighs, eyes drifting closed again. “Not his fault.”

            It feels like only seconds pass but when Abbie opens her eyes again, Jenny is now standing and the door behind her is opening and then there is a doctor at her side, shining lights into her eyes.

            “Bad reaction to the anesthesia,” the doctor announces. “How are you feeling, Lieutenant?”

            Like she’d had a plane crash for brunch. “M’fine.”

            And then there is more talk. The doctor politely turns her attention to Jenny as she gives her the report, which is good because Abbie’s head is killing her and she feels dangerously close to vomiting and words aren’t good now. She picks up on some points of the conversation.

            “We’ll need to keep her under observation for a few days with such a close call,” Abbie hears the doctor say and oh how _wonderful_ , “but the progress so far is good. Better than I expected, frankly.”

            “That’s Abbie, always overachieving.” Abbie wants so very badly to call her sister a bitch, but she’s too busy shaking with weak laughter. “I’d like to stay for as long as I can.”

            “Of course, Miss Mills.” The doctor pauses. “And what should I do about the man out there?”

            Abbie opens her eyes just in time to see a flash of black disappear out of the doorway.

            Jenny hums and turns to Abbie, raising a quizzical eyebrow. Abbie manages one feeble nod.

            “That’s our cousin Steve,” Jenny tells the doctor. “Steve will be staying as long as he can, too.” Jenny’s eyes trace Abbie’s face. “You ready?”

            Abbie hates being sick, hates being weak in front of other people. She smells like ash and must look like every single ring of hell, she’s _exhausted_ and vaguely nauseous and aching from head to toe, but she nods and gathers her strength.

            Jenny smiles, squeezing her hand one final time before following the doctor out the door. There is a moment or two when she is alone and she finds herself holding her breath, and then Crane steps inside.

            He looks pinched. His face is drawn and tight, as pale as Jenny had been. His hair is a mess and he’s covered in dirt still, and his stance is so stiff he looks like he could crack.

            He looks like a ghost, fit to collapse. Abbie forces herself to tilt her head towards him and ignore the vertigo. “Hey.”

            “Miss Mills,” and god, that’s not _his_ voice, not that airless rasp. “Are you…how are you fairing?”

            “Felt better,” Abbie murmurs, tapping the button for the morphine again. “Felt worse.”

            Crane doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I am…pleased to see you thusly recovered from your surgery.”

            “How’re you?” asks Abbie.

            “ _I_ am fine,” he says tightly, in a way that makes Abbie think he regrets that fact.

            She watches Crane for a long, silent minute. “You gonna look at me?”

            His throat works in a swallow, eyes stubbornly downcast. “I cannot.”

            Abbie thinks it’s the most heartbreaking thing she’s ever heard. She takes a deep breath. “S’not your fault, Crane.”

            He jerks his head away. “Do not lie to me, Lieutenant.”

            “Crane.”

            “ _I,_ ” he spits out harshly, ruthlessly, “sought him out. I carelessly and foolishly sought him out because I thought I could _reason_ with him.”

            “Crane…”

            “I thought some piece of Abraham was still in there, some bit of his soul that I could reach. Blinded by my own arrogance, I led us right into a trap despite your misgivings, despite your warnings that he had gotten under my skin, that I was compromised. I didn’t listen and he drew me in, and you nearly…you—”

            “I agreed to come.”

            And then Crane _snaps_. “You agreed to give me your trust when I asked it of you and _look_ at where you are! Look at where I’ve led you!”

            This is the worst Abbie’s ever seen him go off the handle, worse than when they found the beheaded Masons, worse than those micro fissures of outbursts interrogating the Horseman. His fists clench at his sides and his shoulders square as he jerks further away from her. He lets out a sharp, tight breath.

            “Crane,” Abbie says with a hint of old steel, because she’s got to pull him back outside his head.

            With restraint, he slowly twists to face her, to finally lift his eyes to hers. Crane’s expression is _raw_. It robs Abbie of words.

            “That shot was meant for _me_ ,” he says in a broken voice. “If this were my time and not yours, you would be dead now, do you understand?”

            Abbie waits until she’s sure her voice is steady to speak. Even then, it’s still weak. “M’not.”

            Crane stares at her and then lifts his chin, jaw clenched and eyes hard. “You do not put yourself between me and danger, Lieutenant. Never again.”

            As if she can be commanded. Abbie doesn’t respond.

            “Lieutenant,” he repeats, tense voice crumbling around the edges.

            Abbie just looks at him there.

            His expression falls apart. “Please,” he entreats softly. “I cannot…”

            Abbie lifts her hand, fingers outstretched and then he is there, right next to her and dwarfing her hand in his, clasping it between his two palms as though it were the most precious thing on earth.

            Abbie pulls just a little and he gets the message, lowering himself to the small space between her hip and the edge. His eyes never leave her face. They pin her down, wet at the edges, big and sad and lost and scared.

            Abbie knows that look, knows that feeling, knows the sheer dread at being something small and lost and in the wide world, utterly alone. He hadn’t seen it in her face the day she met the Sin-Eater, the day Crane had to swallow poison. He didn’t, maybe couldn’t see it but it had been there all the same, in the way her voice cracked and her eyes filled and in the way she couldn’t say, _please don’t leave, not when I’ve just found you_.

            Abbie has been alone for most of her life. She can’t be alone anymore, and Crane didn’t quite fit at first but now, she doesn’t know how to live without him. She doesn’t want to know how, doesn’t want to imagine it because the prospect is terrifying.

           And seeing that same terror on _his_ face is a new kind of wretchedness.

            It takes him several moments before he lets himself speak. Abbie waits, heart thudding in her chest. “I cannot do this without you. I _cannot_ ,” he repeats, looking at her desperately.

            Abbie wants to say a million things, wants to lie and tell him that he won’t ever be alone even though there might come a day when he may have to, or when she might have to. She wants to tell him how scared she is too, that he’s just as essential to her as she is to him. But all she can summon past the knot in her throat is a slow nod and, “Okay.”

            “To live with your death would have been a burden surpassing description,” Crane continues softly. “It would’ve shaken me to the very core, tested my faith. It would’ve taken more strength to overcome than anything I’ve yet to endure thus far and not a day would’ve passed without me mourning your loss.” Crane swallows again. “To live knowing that _I_ was the cause of your death would have been beyond my ability to bear. You mustn’t do that to me again. Please.”

            Abbie wants to ask him if he’s ever loved someone before, the idiot, but she only gives him another nod because they’ve both been through enough today.

            Crane looks at her for a long, quiet moment, eyes searching her face as if soaking up every little detail. “You are tired. I should allow you to rest.”

            “Mmm,” Abbie agrees with a yawn. “Gimme ‘bout two hundred years.”

            She opens up her eyes again just in time to see him smile. With tenderness that sends Abbie’s eyes watering, he lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it reverently. Abbie watches him do it again, and then again.

             “Thank you,” he murmurs, shifting to kiss each of her fingers, eyes tightly closed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

             Abbie, blinking back tears, lets her own eyes drift closed.  “Not your fault, Crane.”

             He drops his forehead on her knuckles. “Abbie.”

             “Not your fault. M’gonna be okay. I’m still here. Abraham is gone, but I’m here. M’your best friend now.” Crane lets out a huff of breath that Abbie thinks could be a laugh, but she doesn’t have enough strength to open her eyes. “We’ll talk books for as long as you want. We’ll go for pizza. I’ll let you feed me tea. We’ll save the world.”

             And now Crane _is_ laughing, low and rumbling in a way that Abbie can feel in her bones. He brings her fingers to his mouth again. “Sweet Abigail. Rest now.”

             As the world recedes in Abbie’s fatigue, the one thing that remains is the warmth of her hand in his. Chances for normal might have been long gone, but she has _this_ , and she is not alone.

             And tomorrow is a brand new day.

 

* * *

 

 

END


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